The door of the boathouse stood open when I approached; and, on entering, I found it emptied of all its furniture, saving one of the old lockers, on which Mrs. Gummidge, with a basket on her knee, was seated, looking at Mr. Peggotty. He leaned his elbow on the rough chimneypiece, and gazed upon a few expiring embers in the grate; but he raised his head, hopefully, on my coming in, and spoke in a cheery manner.
“Come, according to promise, to bid farewell to ’t, eh, Mas’r Davy?” he said, taking up the candle. “Bare enough, now, an’t it?”
“Indeed you have made good use of the time,” said I.
“Why, we have not been idle, sir. Missis Gummidge has worked like a—I doen’t know what Missis Gummidge an’t worked like,” said Mr. Peggotty, looking at her, at a loss for a sufficiently approving simile.
Mrs. Gummidge, leaning on her basket, made no observation.
“Theer’s the very locker that you used to sit on, ’long with Em’ly!” said Mr. Peggotty, in a whisper. “I’m a-going to carry it away with me, last of all. And heer’s your old little bedroom, see, Mas’r Davy! A’most as bleak tonight, as ’art could wish!”
In truth, the wind, though it was low, had a solemn sound, and crept around the deserted house with a whispered wailing that was very mournful. Everything was gone, down to the little mirror with the oyster-shell frame. I thought of myself, lying here, when that first great change was being wrought at home. I thought of the blue-eyed child who had enchanted me. I thought of Steerforth: and a foolish, fearful fancy came upon me of his being near at hand, and liable to be met at any turn.